


Winner

by TifosaAtHeart (F1_Fanatic)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: 2019 Canadian grand prix, Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Working Out My Feelings Through Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-06-10
Packaged: 2020-04-24 06:08:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19167364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/F1_Fanatic/pseuds/TifosaAtHeart
Summary: Sebastian feels nothing but numbness. He crosses the line first, yet he can't consider himself a winner.





	Winner

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, I know I have other works in progress but I needed this one to cope with my feelings after that race. I recognize that some things are illogical or extravagant but seriously that's how I feel since yesterday evening. Seb won the Canadian Grand Prix, no matter what the history books might want us to believe. #ForzaSeb

Sebastian feels nothing but numbness. He crosses the line first, yet he can't consider himself a winner. He yells down his radio that's not fair but it's as if no one is listening. Riccardo doesn't even bother to answer, at least viewers worldwide will never hear it since it was never broadcasted on TV. He wants to scream, punch his steering wheel and curse. He's had dismays in the past for sure but in his eleven, almost twelve career years in Formula One, Sebastian hasn't felt any more lonely.

He's furious. Not with Mercedes, not with Lewis, no. The guys did their job, as they're supposed to. But he raced his heart out in a Ferrari that could crumble underneath him at any minute, he kept his head down and restricted Lewis to second place, all so that the stewards and their ridiculous rule book could snatch away his victory from between his hands. At this point, he'd prefer a harsher penalty, a disqualification even, anything that would allow him to just climb out of his car and run away from this fiasco. Yet, even with the penalty applied, he's finished second, and he knows there are certain formalities that cannot be ignored.

What's the point in celebrating, though, when the sport he so deeply fell in love with all those years ago punishes him for being a true racer? Why go up there and drink champagne when the sport is disgracing itself in such spectacular fashion? He wishes he could skip the podium altogether and return to the Ferrari motor home or his hotel room, anywhere away from the circuit to be honest, to shut the world outside, their clapping of hands and camera flicking and finally be able to breathe again.

_To hell with formalities._

Entering the pit lane, he stops his car. Simply shuts it off and jumps out as quickly as possible. The few race officials that are standing on the spot frown at him and walk away, as if he's a bomb set to explode the next second. He doesn't mind. If anything, it's their fault for causing this mess and if they're not satisfied with the way he deals with it, then he's double not satisfied with the way they dealt with it. His Ferrari isn't too heavy, it has emptied of fuel, so it's relatively easy for him push it to the scales. He proceeds getting himself weighed, just so that no one can argue he didn't follow the normal post race protocol, and storms away the second he's done.

Helmet still on, gloves tightly clutched on his hands, he doesn't bother with triumphant speeches or celebrations as he jogs straight towards the Ferrari hospitality. He notices there's a camera in tow as he bangs the door shut behind him but he could honestly care less. Besides, it's only a couple more steps in the cafeteria, TV crews are not allowed to go further than that.

Blocking the world outside, the moment Sebastian is alone with his thoughts in his driver's room, he collapses. He jolts his helmet off his head and sends it flying to the nearest wall.

“DAMN!” he shouts loud enough for all the Ferrari personnel in the building to hear as his sparkling white helmet thuds against the floor. “DAMN!” That's louder than before and accompanied by his clenched fist being slumped against the door. The gesture makes him feel better for a split second, it helps to ease a little of the tension inside him, but once the heat of the moment washes away, the pain from the violence of the movement starts to settle in, causing his knuckles to go numb, and he purses his lips, cradling his hand close to his chest. “Damn.” The last time it's only a faint whisper, filled with pain and regret and Sebastian isn't sure whether it's because of the race's terrible result or the astonishing tirade of his self pity but his exhausted brain refuses to decide.

“Sebby?” Britta carefully pokes her head through the door with a sad smile on her face and Sebastian offers her the smallest of nods to indicate it's okay if she comes in. She sighs closing the distance between them and stretches her arms to wrap him in a hug but then eyes the bruises that are already forming in his hand and kisses the back of his palm instead. “It's only a race, it'll get better” she promises, rubbing soothing circles on his skin.

Sebastian shakes his head. “It's not one race, Britta. It's been five years!”

“But you didn't break” Britta reminds him, grasping his face, and looks at his sea blue eyes. “You didn't give up. You got back on your feet and fought harder when no one believed you could even take a step. Regardless of the outcome, you fought till the end and that's what matters. Every weekend you turn up on the track, put your gloves on and race your heart out because racing is what you love most in life, remember?”

“It's not the sport that I knew and loved, Britta” Sebastian admits, exhaling a large puff of air. “Back then, when I was just a fan, drivers won races because they deserved to, not because of useless politics.”

“It was unfair, yes” she agrees. “So what? We back down and accept defeat?” The silence from Sebastian's side is all the confirmation she needs. “That's not the Seb I know” she cocks a skeptical eyebrow. “The Seb I know would be out there smiling, joking and messing with this bunch of idiots.”

“I don't feel like joking right now” he tells her, stubborn as a mule.

“That's exactly what they expect you to do!” Britta reasons with him. “Don't hide yourself in here, don't let them have their way. Sebastian Vettel is not one to be brought down that easily. Go, show the world the real winner of this race!”

Sebastian stares at her for a moment, then sighs and nods. “Fine, I'll go.”

Britta flashes him a small smile and reaches up to kiss his cheek. “Walk, wave, don't break.”

The few meters towards the cool down room feel like an eternity. He hears the crowd roaring in the side lines; applauding or booing, he doesn't know. He sees the camera that is filming his angry face and has to resist the urge to shove it away. He senses the journalists' curious eyes on his back, waiting for him to crack so that they can reward themselves with a witty headline. Well, he's not going to play their game. He repeats Britta's words in his head, _Walk, wave, don't break._

_Walk. Wave. Don't break._

_Walk. Wave. Don't break._

_Walk. Wave. Don't break._

_Don't break._

He surprises himself that he even manages to reach the cool down room. But he doesn't walk in just yet; there's one more thing to be done. He lifts his eyes from his racing shoes to look at the cars before him. A shiny silver Mercedes and a blood red Ferrari aligned in front of the guardrails where the respective teams have gathered to watch the podium ceremony. But unlike the countless other celebrations they've witnessed, the space at the left is empty. One car, the car that _won_ the race is missing and he decides people should know which car it is. He grabs the No.1 sign from where it's standing in front of Lewis's car and puts it where his Ferrari should be, replacing it with the No.2 sign they've unfairly left there. He takes a few steps back and shoots one final glance to the top three. A weak smile finds its way into his lips. Yeah, he definitely showed the world whose victory this is.

* * *

_I fell in love with the sport, I love racing. The amount of satisfaction I get just going around in a Formula 1 car makes me smile. So if it is a bad day then you tend to come out and say it's horrible and you don't enjoy. But if you had to pick between that and doing nothing, you would always pick that._ -Sebastian Vettel, 2019 Canadian Grand Prix winner

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudo/comment if you enjoyed. Any support is more than welcome!


End file.
